To Deny Defeat
by vlad the inhaler
Summary: Harry Potter never accepts defeat. Never.


Harry was angry…no, not angry – absolutely _livid. _That arrogant twat, the sniveling little ferret that was Draco Malfoy had finally pushed Harry too far. He could tolerate Draco insulting his best friends – really, weasel and mudblood were pathetic monikers coming from an equally pathetic individual.

He could tolerate Malfoy's continual boasts and simultaneous put-downs of Harry's accomplishments and his parents' deaths. _Sticks and stones._

But under no circumstances would Harry ever be okay with the abomination of today, November 1st, 1996. For Draco Malfoy had done something far more unforgivable than _Avada Kedavra._

He had beaten Harry Potter at quidditch.

Harry would be the first to realize that in the overall scheme of things, with Dark Lords and corrupt governments running around, a school match was rather trivial. That however, simply wasn't the _point_.

Harry Potter stood for good – the poor orphan boy tragically forced into an unhappy childhood, only to discover the most evil man in a century had a one track mind leading to his death. Despite fate's unfortunate hand, Harry had been a champion of the light, of equality – "Dumbledore's Man" as the papers were calling him when he wasn't being hailed as _The Chosen One_.

Draco Malfoy on the other hand had a rich and comfortable childhood, filled with frivolities and whimsical entertainments. His parents were influential, his mother beautiful, his father powerful…the paragon of pureblood genealogy. Despite which, he was a nasty, bigoted…petty individual – the very type Harry had devoted his life to topple from supremacy.

Really there was only one possible conclusion: Draco Malfoy would have to go.

Killing him wouldn't work – true, he would be unable to commit any further crimes, but damage had already been done – Gryffindor was definitively out of the Quidditch Cup race. No, Harry thought as he trudged back to the Gryffindor Tower, there really was only one solution.

Harry would travel back in time, and guarantee that Draco Malfoy was never born.

After all, one can't play seeker if one doesn't exist.

The Plan, as it came to be called, had a few flaws. Most notably, the _how_ and the _when_. Harry knew very little about the Malfoy's save how much he despised them, and could not guarantee any moment when he might be able to ensure Malfoy's ultimate demise. As to how – a time turner at most could take him back a few hours…enough to replay the game had he thought of it earlier, granted – but there was always next year, and the year after that, and the year after that…

All answers came together on the last day of school before the Christmas holidays. So simple, so devious – Harry burst out laughing. It really was simple. If magic could make a house disappear, or kill a person instantly, or make one appear somewhere else in a mere moment – really what was a little time travel? A snappy word, a flick of the wand… As Professor McGonagall was so fond of pointing out, it all boiled down to intent.

Ten minutes later, Harry decided that _Tempo Regresso _followed by a downward spiral ought to send him back to his parent's first year. He would enroll in Hogwarts, and surely Lucius Malfoy would be in school at some point in that seven year span, and one curse would end everything. Otherwise…well he'd just have to say _Tempo Regresso _another time…

And so for months Harry plotted, coming up with every spell he might need to complete his noble plan. His revelation about the true requirements of magic did wonders for his education, and he quickly flew past his peers, overshadowing Hermione even at her best. _Fidelus, Imperio, _Legilimancy, trace removal – anything Harry thought might be remotely useful was practiced to perfection.

And so, on July 30th Harry Potter snuck out of number four Privet Drive. How fortunate, that Mundungus Fletcher had been on patrol that night. Of course, Tonks had been as well – and it was through his two minute conversation with her before her shift ended that he had discovered this most fortuitous of events.

Leaving the house and the numerous wards and traces that Dumbledore had placed to ensure Harry's obedience, Harry bellowed a loud, "Tempo Regresso" and in a flash of light, Harry Potter ceased to exist, instruments on Dumbledore's desk falling flat and the old man's face crumbling in horror a moment before the entire timeline faded into oblivion.

A flash and blink later found Harry standing in what had once been his front lawn. Number four was still there, though a different color – the entire neighborhood was slightly off. Harry grinned, reaching for the newspaper that happened to lay on the front porch.

_July 31__st__, 1971. _Harry grinned, whooping loudly into the silent night at the success of the first part of his plan.

The following month saw great changes. Harry had of course prepared beforehand to presume a new identity – a challenge that had proven rather anti-climactic. He had simply gone to Gringott's and inadvertently let slip that he had once known a goblin named Griphook.

Suddenly, the entire bank had fallen silent, before a lone goblin raced from the cart entrance, throwing himself at Harry's feet weeping tears of joy. For he, this lowly goblin, was Griphook – and yet Mr. Harry Potter had remembered him after all these years.

From there, it was a short hop skip and jump to meet the C.E.O. and Emperor of the Goblin Nation, who had piled upon Harry all required documents forged with the utmost of care, as well as a rather impressive vault retroactively opened in 1970. As such, Harry Potter was now a moderately wealthy wizard from a long line of purebloods, one Harry Jameson. The goblins had assured him that such a blatant name change would never be caught onto – after all, Tom Riddle's entire fortune rested safely in Gringott's walls, the ministry investigating it not once.

And so, as Harry boarded the Hogwarts express under an impregnable glamour, wearing the finest robes of Acromantula silk and carrying a trunk with more compartments than the train itself, he could not help but feeling a little pleased. His new home, as he humbly called it, had once been the Apollo Victoria. A Fidelus charm here, a house elf there – and the entire building was now a mansion – the muggles none the wiser when the theatre house suddenly disappeared.

It was little surprise then that he was sorted into Slytherin. What was surprising, to the rest of the school at least, was simply how long the sorting took. Of course, they didn't know that the hat had to practically beg Harry to lower his Occlumency shields, or that the two were currently sharing a laugh at the plethora of innuendo the sorting song contained. _Really, what do they think you meant by 'Slither in 'er Ravenclaw'? _

It was a rather good turn of events – Dumbledore at this time had no reason to truly be wary of the house full of future death eaters, and it would not do to potentially interfere with his parents' relationship. Yes, a minor glitch in that department could very well end his plans…

The first three years were incredibly dull. Lucius had been a 6th year when Harry reentered his past and future school, but Harry could not bring himself to commit the final act. It seemed so…surgical. Lucius would die, Draco would never live – but where was the pleasure, the thrill, the excitement. No, he would wait longer.

The fourth year was slightly better, as Harry made the Slytherin quidditch team, as well as got round to killing the basilisk. Destroying the beast had been very easy – a conjured rooster with an Imperioused crow was rather anticlimactic, but it got the job done.

Far more useful was the massive cache of supplies the corpse provided, as well as the honor and esteem he won throughout his house at the revelation that Harry Jameson was a parcel-tongue. At a mere thirteen years he was on the receiving end of worshipful stares and awed whispers that he might be a long lost descendant of the great Salazar Slytherin.

Fifth year witnessed Harry Jameson's rise to the very top of his house, despite the politicking of two years worth of older students. His wealth was unquestioned, his quidditch talent recognized, he seemed to be naturally gifted in all his courses, the girls adored him and the boys looked upon him with an envious respect.

He naturally made prefect, a position that on more than one occasion he used vengefully against his dorm mate, Severus Snape – further isolating the already estranged boy from the Slytherin student body.

All of it was for naught – Harry gained no happiness through his success. Yes, Harry Jameson would go down in history as one on of the greatest alumni the school had ever known. Harry Potter however, would still play in that damned match, and still lose 220-170 after three hours of playing in a miserable thunderstorm.

No, Harry gained no happiness whatsoever.

He did however, have a plan, and as the school year ended, Harry sat in his private chambers in what he now wittily called the Jameson Victoria, drafting a note for Orion Black, current head of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black.

He finished his letter, reading it over as a chilling smirk crossed his face. Jameson was not a name known throughout wizarding history, but wealth and success had a way of making up for this shortcoming…of course, having readily at hand a family tree charting his pureblooded ancestry back to the 1200's didn't hurt either. Yes, Harry thought, it is not long until the future is irrevocably changed, and Draco Malfoy will be no more.

Sixth year was Harry Jameson's last – he would return to his correct time at the end of this year, a seventh year in either timeline. Really, it no longer mattered – magic oaths had been sworn, paths set…Malfoy had been surreptitiously poisoned – there was no going back. For the third year running Slytherin won the Quidditch cup, Harry as the team captain. James and Lily had dated that year – leaving Harry secure in his own existence. Yes, everything was perfect, it was time to truly go home.

And so on December 18th as the Hogwart's Express puffed into Paddington Station, Harry slunk into one of the restroom's on board, and for the first time whispered _Tempo Progresso _with an upward swing of his arm, Harry Jameson ceased to exist, and Harry Potter stumbled out of the loo, returning knowingly to the carriage where Ron and Hermione waited.

"Hey mate, wondering when you'd get back." Ron exclaimed joyously.

Harry grinned, "Just composing myself – lovely isn't it, a Christmas with my bloody aunt."

"Harry", Hermione said solemnly, "Don't be so harsh. It can't be easy for her – your uncle and cousin dying in a car crash like that. It's times like this that family is so important."

Harry nodded, resigned to his fate, and Ron tried desperately to bring the conversation to a less somber spirit.

"So mate…bloody brilliant that game was, eh? 300-100! That tosser Moon didn't have a chance for the snitch, not with you playing like you did!"

Harry smiled, the memory of the event slowly coming back to him from across the temporal mists. "Yeh…great game – shame Draco wasn't here to see it."

Hermione and Ron exchanged a look, "Harry…who's Draco?" Hermione inquired.

Harry laughed, a genuine full belly roar that echoed throughout the compartment. "Draco is…Draco is nobody – an idiot and bully I used to know. You know…before…before I came to Hogwarts."

The two nodded, and the moment passed just as the train came to a complete stop.

Harry stepped off the train, waved a good-bye to his friends before walking up to his aunt, her face gaunt and still weary with grief. Harry smiled thinly, and received a curt nod in response. Without a word exchanged, they walked out of the station and into the busy crowds of muggle London.

Ten minutes later, Harry finally spoke.

"Car crash huh?"

Petunia shrugged, "it seemed appropriate – isn't that how your parents died?"

Harry nodded, before letting out a chuckle, "karma's a right bastard don't you think?"

Petunia nodded, then stopped, looking behind her. "I think it's safe now, don't you?"

A pause. "I suppose so…I don't think anyone will be on the lookout for us anyway."

Petunia nodded again, pulling a wand out her back pocket and saying "Finite Incantatem."

She glowed, a blinding white. He face filled out, cheekbones rising and her eyes turned an ice blue. She grew taller, her body filling out as her hair fell further down her face, a curtain of ghostly silk.

Harry stared, his eyes bugging out as he managed to stutter out, "How? You don't look a day over seventeen!"

She shrugged, as if this event was not worth considering. "De-aging potion, naturally. Illegal of course, I needed the hearts of a dozen virgins to successfully brew it – but it's a small price to pay, isn't it?" She grinned coquettishly at the look of adoration on his handsome face.

Harry finally barked a short laugh. "That it is…that it is. Anyway, anyone who comes after me probably wants answers to more than a few murders. Case you wondered, I was responsible for old Lucius by the way."

She giggled, "Was that really necessary?"

Harry nodded enthusiastically, "Absolutely – had to guarantee that no Malfoy spawn would every rival me." He smiled, "seems I've guaranteed that quite nicely."

She giggled again, and Harry knew he could never tire of hearing that voice.

"Your place or mine?" she asked with a coy smile.

"Mine, my sweet Narcissa. I've got a lovely place in Victoria that should suit you just fine."


End file.
